


i lived here, i loved here, i bought it, it's true

by polarizingpolaris



Series: the kid has got a darkside [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, I TRIED TO SPEEDRUN WRITING THIS B4 THE 16TH, Kinda, No Romance, Scary Tubbo, Smart Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, Traitor Toby Smith | Tubbo, Traitor TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Toby Smith | Tubbo, my favorite hobby is abusing italics, started before the 16th, they're gonna stream like tmrw and throw this whole fic out the window, y'all are spelling tubbo wrong it's spelled 'main character'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27572626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarizingpolaris/pseuds/polarizingpolaris
Summary: “Tubbo? He’s lying to you, man! He would drop us the second he realizes we’re not in the lead anymore!”—In which Wilbur goes too far, and Tubbo has had enough.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: the kid has got a darkside [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119878
Comments: 49
Kudos: 570





	1. a boiling opposition

**Author's Note:**

> *wilbur rly said GIVE THE FANFIC WRITERS FUEL
> 
> *WILBUR GIVING US TEN DAYS SIR I CANT WRITE A FANFIC IN TEN DAYS LMAO
> 
> *i feel like i don’t know enough details about the smp to write a completely accurate fic so i’m half bullshitting this NNDNDJF
> 
> *ik they spell it ‘l’manberg’ but that’s ugly i’m spelling it with a u
> 
> *obligatory this is based off their personas and characters they’ve created not the real people yada yada yada y’all have heard it before NDNMFMGMG
> 
> *title from rät - penelope scott

Wilbur stands with his arms spread wide, a manic glint in his eyes that dance across everyone’s faces, and Tubbo has never felt more disconnected from everyone in Pogtopia.

There’s no way that they can’t catch the insanity burning behind Wilbur’s eyes, right? There’s _no_ way they don’t see the way he teeters on the edge, a balancing act one poorly worded sentence from toppling over, right? There’s _no way_ everyone is _actually okay_ with this plan, _right_?

Because the thing is, Tubbo wasn’t sure _what_ to think when Wilbur first brought out the TNT. On one hand, Schlatt _needed_ to be knocked down a peg, but did they _really_ have to do that at the cost of L— Manburg, their home?

He can still smell freshly baked pies, can hear the sounds of their boots clacking against the boardwalks, can remember the way he held a hand up to the glare of the sun, watching the L’manburg flag wave in the distance with the golden light surrounding it like a halo. It started with a simple caravan, and it grew into something much, _much_ more, and Tubbo can’t imagine trading it for anything in the world.

Yes, he wants Schlatt taken down, and ever since the festival, there’s been a sick part of him festering in the back of his mind, one that wants more than _anything_ to see the look on Schlatt’s face if their roles were reversed. But can he trade the scent of Niki’s baked goods for ash and smoke? Can he burn the wooden paths they’ve laid down? Can he bear to see their flag still waving amongst a wall of flames? Can he sleep at night with images of their home reduced to rubble plaguing his thoughts? Can he stomach the guilt that rises in his throat every time he stays silent, enabling the path of destruction L’manburg is on?

He used to think so, but even as far back as the festival, when he glanced around at his hard work and the wide smiles on his friend’s faces, there was a part of him that thought he’d rather have Schlatt in power than have no L’manburg at all.

But he shoved it down into the depths of his heart, locked and sealed it away with the fantasies of Schlatt in a box. Wilbur and Schlatt were insane enough; Pogtopia didn’t need _another_ power-hungry thrill-seeker on their hands, so he forced a filter down his throat and kept spewing whatever Wilbur wanted to hear, keeping his true opinions under lock and key.

Tubbo glances around the ravine at the sets of eyes trained on Wilbur, and the chains around those thoughts begin to loosen.

Quackity and Fundy are new additions, but he can see the determination in their eyes. He recognizes it because he finds it whenever he looks in the mirror. It’s the resolve to topple a man’s throne, the slight greed at the thought of destruction and control. He sees Quackity’s fingers twitch, as if brushing against the threads of power Wilbur has offered them.

Bad has an eyebrow raised, but he makes no move to stop Wilbur, no indication of opposition. He doesn’t share the same conviction that Quackity and Fundy have shown, but he doesn’t shy away either. He looks Wilbur in his fiery eyes and takes it in stride, like the flames licking behind his gaze don’t even faze him, like they aren’t even burning at all.

It fills Tubbo with a sort of rage. Not _one_ of them makes a move to oppose Wilbur. Not _one_ of them stands up for their country. Not _one_ of them shows any resistance to tearing their home to shreds.

How can they stand there and accept that if they lose- which they likely will; it’s _Dream_ after all- their country will go up in flames? How can they look down at their hands and picture rubble filtering through their fingertips and turn a blind eye? Wilbur has gone mad, which was obvious from the minute he laid down the TNT, but this is on a _whole_ other level, and _nobody_ cares? They’re supposed to be fighting to get L’manburg _back_ , for God’s sake!

And then he looks up and sees Tommy. Tommy, who gave up his discs for L’manburg. Tommy, who took an arrow for their country. Tommy, who built their nation from the ground up, who carries it’s weight on his shoulders. Tommy is the backbone of L’manburg. He represents the grass under their feet, the walls that once stood tall; Tommy embodies the very _essence_ of their nation...

And even _he_ has nothing to say to Wilbur.

There is not _one_ word that falls from Tommy’s mouth against blowing up their nation. He doesn’t hear a _single word_ in defiance, not a _single_ defense of their home. Tommy, who gave up _everything_ for L’manburg, can’t even swallow his pride and stand up to the one set out to destroy it.

Something in Tubbo’s chest breaks.

“You know we’re going to lose,” Tubbo seethes through clenched teeth, balling his hands into fists. “You... you _want_ us to lose.”

He throws a hand out to the side. “You ask us to fight against Schlatt and _Dream?_ Dream _literally_ has access to _creative mode_ , and you ask us to fight him and fucking _win?!”_ He can feel his nails break his skin. “Not to mention the fact that there’s apparently a _traitor_ in our midst, so no matter _what_ we do, they’re going to be ten steps ahead!”

The word ‘ _traitor_ ’ has been thrown around an awful lot, and it’s lost a bit of it’s weight. He wouldn’t be surprised if Wilbur thinks they’re all traitors, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Technoblade turns against them; honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if _anyone_ went against them at this point.

But then Niki comes running in, clutching a hoe in her hands with a defeated, empty expression on her face. “Techno’s siding with Schlatt.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Wilbur starts _cackling_ , doubling over through breathless giggles, and Tubbo almost wants to join him. It’s not like Techno has been loyal to them; he murdered literally _everyone_ , and has said _multiple_ times that if push comes to shove, he’ll drop them for Schlatt without an ounce of guilt. Tubbo can’t find it within himself to be surprised, but he _does_ find his anger rising.

“And now we have to go against fucking _Technoblade?!”_ he exclaims, stepping forward and pointing a finger at the former President accusingly. “You’ve set us up for failure, Wilbur! You _know_ we’re going to lose, so you scheduled our funerals just so you have an excuse to blow up L’manburg!”

He’s in front of Wilbur now, tilting his head up to meet the ex-president’s smug smile. Punctuating every word with a jab to his chest, Tubbo yells, “I’m. Not. Fucking. Stupid. You are so _predictable_ , Wilbur!”

“And what of it?” Wilbur whispers, amusement dancing across his eyes. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trench-coat and leans backwards, grinning down at Tubbo like he’s a pebble on the side of the road, like his words are going in one ear and out the other, like everything he’s saying is inconsequential and holds absolutely _no_ meaning to him whatsoever. “What are you going to do about it?”

Tubbo’s mouth opens and then closes. “...You’re digging all of our graves.”

Wilbur tilts his head to the side, an innocent smile grazing his lips. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Tubbo?”

His eyes widen as he stumbles a step back.

How... how dare he? How fucking _dare_ he?! While Tubbo takes a stand no one else dares to, while he risks anger and exile all over again, the only reaction Wilbur has is to throw his execution back into his face? While they teeter on the brink of war, Wilbur lives in the festival, dances around in red, white, and blue fireworks, and breathes the scent of death lingering in the air.

How fucking dare he string this to Tubbo’s stand to the festival, where he glanced over evil smiles and couldn’t connect the dots, where he put his trust into the pig who would end up murdering him. How fucking _dare_ he talk about where he put his heart and soul into every block he built, where he created a land from the ground up, only to watch as it was torn apart like it meant nothing. How _fucking dare_ _he_ make out like Tubbo’s opposition is equivalent to when he missed the cues, when he floundered like a fish out of water, when he was a meager _child_ while the people in power spoke.

There’s no more treading on eggshells. Tubbo has done enough of that for a lifetime.

“ _Fuck you,_ ” he spits, and he throws every bit of meaning into the two words. “Fuck you, Wilbur Soot, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

And in typical fashion, Wilbur throws his head back and chuckles, completely dismissing Tubbo’s words. “Oh, Tubbo, Tubbo, Tubbo,” he clicks, taking slow steps forward until he’s casting a shadow over the boy. He leans down, keeping his eyes ever so slightly above the other, and while his nails dig into Tubbo’s shoulder, he says, “If you hate me so much, why don’t you just go and join Schlatt?”

Tubbo’s heart stutters to a stop. “W— what?”

Wilbur straightens and shrugs. “Well, since you’re _so_ _against_ blowing up Manburg, you may as well fight against me. I’m not going to listen to you trying to convince me that blowing it up is wrong, and you’d be aiming to stop me anyways.”

“Wilbur—“ Tommy cuts in, moving to step between the two but not quite closing the distance. His eyes dart between Tubbo and Wilbur, as if he’s not sure who to comfort. “...Wilbur—“

“Has a point,” Tubbo says before he can stop the words, but after they leave his mouth, he finds himself agreeing.

Wilbur has put _every_ pawn in their favor with his ultimatum. If they win against Manburg, then Schlatt is knocked out of power, which is what he wants. If they lose against Manburg, he blows it sky high, which is _also_ what he wants.

The thing is, the _second_ Dream changed sides, Tubbo saw the opportunist in Wilbur _jump out._ Wilbur _knows_ they’re going to lose against Manburg; every odd is in their favor with both Dream _and_ Technoblade on their side. Hell, Techno has _already_ killed everyone, most of which in full Netherite armor, with absolute _ease_.

Which is why he declared he’ll blow it up if they lose. It’s a win-win situation for him either way. Sure, if they _somehow_ win, he’ll lose out on the destruction, and the TNT will have to rot in a chest somewhere—

But... but it’s not like he promised to _not_ blow up Manburg even if they do win. For all they know, Wilbur will force himself back into power just to push the button. For all they know, Wilbur will weasel his way into the position of President and will lead their nation down an even _worse_ path than Schlatt has. Either way, Wilbur has _complete control_ over the situation; he’s the puppet-master and everyone is his pawn.

It’s manipulation and Wilbur _knows it_ , and the realization is like a slap to the face. Tubbo thought he escaped it when he left Manburg, but he walked right into the hands of another unstable dictator. It’s obvious in the way Wilbur holds himself with complete confidence, knowing that he has leverage over every single person in the room, knowing he has everybody under his thumb. It’s obvious in the way he watches what makes everyone tick, twisting their personal beliefs to align with his. It’s obvious in the way he tells everyone _exactly_ what they want to hear— just like... just like _Tubbo_ does.

Wilbur isn’t the only opportunist. If this is the game he wants to play, Tubbo will gladly step up to the podium.

Wilbur _knows_ Tubbo. He knows _exactly_ how to challenge him, _exactly_ how to implant guilt into his head. He knows to bring up the festival because he _knows_ Tubbo feels foolish and powerless for missing the signs. He knows that he can dare Tubbo to join Schlatt because he knows Tubbo is _just like him._ They both tell people what they want to hear, and Wilbur _knows_ that Tubbo will fall silent and concede to agreeing with his side. He _knows_ Tubbo’s hatred of confrontation is greater than his confidence in his own ideals.

Or so he thinks.

That’s the one difference between them. Wilbur tells people what they want to hear to get them on his side. Tubbo tells people what they want to hear so they can’t figure out which side he’s on.

“You know what?” he says, and he levels Wilbur with an icy determination burning behind his gaze, enough to rival the fire in the ex-president’s eyes. “ _Fuck you,_ Wilbur Soot.”

He catches a glance of the shock on Wilbur’s face, but it’s hidden as he turns on his heel and marches out of Pogtopia.


	2. echoes in the walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’ll come back once he calms down. Tubbo always comes back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *DID I NOT FUCKING SAY THEY WERE GONNA STREAM AND THROW THIS OUT THE WINDOW
> 
> *shut up shut up traitor tubbo still lives
> 
> *me : no, i shouldn’t make tubbo too op, that would be unrealistic  
> also me : haha smart tubbo go brr

Wilbur knows a lot of things.

He knows the exact amount of TNT stashed in his pocket; it’s only a stack, but there’s a _fuck-ton_ more in a chest. He knows how many buttons line the walls, he knows how many railways lead out of the ravine, he knows how many people stand in Pogtopia currently- it’s seven, or at least, it _was_ seven.

Wilbur knows a lot of people. He knows how Tommy is quick to anger, he knows that Quackity wishes to be seen, he knows Fundy doesn’t expect forgiveness but would still beg for it, and he knows Niki wouldn’t dare to stand against him.

Wilbur knows a lot of things about a lot of people.

Except apparently he _doesn’t_.

Tubbo was practically an open book, second most to Tommy. His avoidance of confrontation was so _easy_ to exploit it was almost sad. Tubbo wouldn’t _dare_ to say a word out of line, balancing on a tight-rope, never trying to stray far from the path laid out for him. When it came down to it, Wilbur could rely on him to stick by his side, whether it was because he wanted to or out of fear.

But somewhere along the line, Wilbur misread him. Somewhere in the story, he skipped over a paragraph, skimming over lines in hopes of getting the general idea but missing the details. He missed the glares on his back, the bitterness in his words, the silent defiance bubbling right under the surface.

And maybe it’s been boiling for a long time and he simply glanced over it, maybe it’s a new addiction rising after the festival, maybe it’s an urge to say no after saying yes for so long, but whatever the reason, Wilbur was _wrong_ about someone, and that’s unacceptable.

He looked at a bear and saw an ant; he watched from atop a throne, unknowingly staring at the one to stab him in the back. Tubbo took his carefully crafted throne and smashed it into pieces, looked him dead in the eyes as he stomped on his crown, turned around and walked away after Wilbur called him a traitor, which was quite possibly the biggest _‘fuck you’_ he could’ve given.

_‘He’s a yes-man!’_ Wilbur thought. _‘He’d never go against me!’_

And that undeniable confidence he held in Tubbo was ultimately his downfall.

Wilbur will admit there‘s a part of him, a tiny whisper in the back of his mind, reminding him of all the warm memories he has of his nation and it’s people. He remembers when they first built the walls with nothing but their own two hands and a handful of pickaxes. He remembers the hours of chatter and jokes while sat in the Camarvan. He remembers clinking a glass with Niki’s, watching the way her eyes crinkled as she smiled. He remembers sitting atop their walls with Fundy as the sun rose, casting his son’s fur in a vibrant glow, and the fond feeling that spread in his chest.

L’manburg was still his nation, his home; he carried it in each of his steps, in the crevasses of his heart, caressing in gently in his hands. He loved his nation and he loved its people just as much, and there were times where he saw a bit wider of a smile, a bit brighter of a laugh, a brushing of arms in a silent show of support, and the love leaked out of the box he had so carefully sealed it in.

Tubbo wasn’t a part of the family, but he may as well have been. He was always there, whether it was hovering over Tommy’s shoulder, listening intently in the background, or standing right beside him, Tubbo was never _not_ around. His presence lingered in the sand in the walls, in the pink potions lining their capital, in the maroon of the flag. Tubbo had split more blood than _anyone_ for L’manburg, and it was evident in the way he held their nation together.

Wilbur believed full-heartedly that he could trust in Tubbo. Even if Niki betrayed him, or Fundy, or Technoblade, or hell, even _Tommy_ , Tubbo was the _one person_ Wilbur knew with _absolute certainty_ he could gift his heart to. Even if Wilbur was wrong somewhere, if he had two stacks of TNT in his pockets, if there was only one exit from Pogtopia, if there were a few thousand more buttons lining the walls, Wilbur knew that there was one thing he would always know: L’manburg was as much of a part of Tubbo as Tubbo was a part of L’manburg.

Wilbur could do nothing but watch as Tubbo turned on his heel and marched out of Pogtopia. It was a punch to his gut, a deep ache in his throat, and Tubbo faded into the shadows once again, out of sight, but still echoing within the ravine’s walls.

Tubbo was always there until suddenly, he _wasn’t_.

It strikes deep within his heart, slicing the last shreds of hope he had buried. As if there’s string laced within his chest, he feels every strand snap, feels a crack run down his heart and split it into two.

And all Wilbur can think to do is laugh.

He laughs and laughs and _laughs_ until the remaining members look at him like he’s insane, until his voice grows shrill and sharp, until the only thing he can hear is his laughter bouncing off the walls, drowning out the ghosts of Tubbo still lining the halls. He laughs until he can’t find anymore breath in his lungs, until he falls to his knees with a hand clutching over his heart, until he realizes that there’s tears running down his cheeks, and his laughter fades into sobs.

He was so fucking stupid, so _fucking stupid_ , because the building blocks of a defiance were so obvious and right in front of his fucking eyes and he _still_ missed the signs. He heard about the way Tubbo straightened his back and defended the Camarvan from being torn down. He heard Tubbo’s voice bounce of the walls in a debate with Tommy over the secret tunnels he had built. He watched with his _own two eyes_ as Tubbo forgave Technoblade despite being told _multiple times_ not to. The threads of revolution were there and were so _obvious_ , and all Wilbur had done was push it.

_He_ was the one who taunted Tubbo constantly, always making jabs about his failure to think for himself, pulling his strings just enough to use that failure for his gain. _He_ was the one who dubbed him a ‘yes-man,’ the one who cast the title over him like a shadow. _He_ was the one who nudged Tubbo in the direction of free thought while hiding a smile behind his back, giving the illusion of choice while still getting what he wanted. Tubbo’s betrayal was as much of his fault as it was Wilbur’s—

No. No, no, _no_ , that’s _stupid_. Wilbur isn’t responsible for anyone’s choices, or anyone’s alignments. He doesn’t make the rules of the land, and he can’t fault someone for simply following them. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and there’s nobody to trust. They’re nothing more than facts of life.

Wilbur wasn’t wrong; Wilbur was never wrong. Tubbo didn’t defy him in any way, he just followed a rule that happened to go against Wilbur’s ideals. That’s all. There were no miscalculations, no faults in his logic; his throne still stood tall and mighty, lined with explosives and burgundy patches of the blood he’s split. There’s a chess board in front of him, and Tubbo is playing by the rules while Wilbur moves his pawns in any way he wants to. Wilbur still knows everything that he knew before, and the frost creeping over his heart doesn’t change that.

And didn’t Wilbur _say_ he was a traitor? Didn’t he _tell him_ to join Schlatt if he was against him? All Tubbo had done was follow what he said to do, just like he’s _always_ done. If he was trying to make a point, he had failed miserably, because all he had proved was that Wilbur was right about him. Wilbur wasn’t wrong. Wilbur was _never_ wrong.

He huffs a laugh, wiping the remains of foolish tears on his gloves. “Well,” he says, and he ignores the creak in his voice as he rises to his feet, dusting the rock off his knees. “There goes another traitor!”

He feels a grin grow on his face, and he levels each person with a glare, tracing over the hesitance in their eyes. “This is exactly what I said, isn’t it? Everyone just follows whoever has the most power. Nobody actually _cares_ , they’re just sheep following the shepherd!”

Wilbur turns to Tommy, who watches Wilbur like prey watches the predator, but his body is twisted halfway, like he wants to run after the traitor the second he gets the chance. “Even _Tubbo_ has betrayed you, Tommy. Even _he_ lost the essence of our nation.”

“No, no, _no_ ,” Tommy replies, shaking his head and reaching his hands up to cover his ears, like he can block out the truth if he tries hard enough. “It’s because _you_ pushed him to. He’ll come back once he calms down. Tubbo _always_ comes back!”

Wilbur places his hands on Tommy’s shoulders, twisting his mouth into a sympathetic frown. Tommy shares the same line of thought Wilbur had, but he’ll come around and see eventually; he just has to give him time, and Wilbur will be proven correct once again. “Oh, Tommy. You’re just trying to convince yourself. The truth hurts, Tommy.”

“Tubbo always comes back,” Tommy whispers, staring at the ground as if he can still feel the murmurs of his friend within the walls.

And then Tommy is wrenching his shoulders from Wilbur’s grip and chasing down the path his friend left on. Wilbur watches him go, making no move to stop him.

He knows a lot of things, and one of those is that even if he can’t trust Tubbo to come back, Tommy _will_. Wilbur wouldn’t be wrong about that.

* * *

“Tubbo?”

Tommy’s voice bounces off the halls, and his feet pound against the floor, a tune in tandem with the beat of his heart. Everything is going to be okay; he’s going to find Tubbo, hear that this is all an elaborate prank and he was just angry and said words he didn’t mean in the spur of the moment, and Tommy will punch his arm playfully as they walk back together.

He finds Tubbo in the one of the rooms Technoblade had holed out before he left. There were a lot of new additions after the festival, so Techno had took it upon himself to carve everyone their own room. They were cramped and stuffy; loose rocks and dust fell onto their heads when people stamped around on the boardwalks, but each room held a little piece of themselves that made the small space feel a little more cozy.

Tubbo’s room is cluttered and messy like Tommy’s, but there’s an organization in the chaos. There are pots of poppies and dandelions lining the shelves from when he and Techno collected them. Haphazardly scattered across the room are multicolored books, topics ranging from potion recipes to Roman war tactics. His L’manburg uniform hangs from a hook on the wall, kept carefully in tact and out of touch with the mess in the rest of the room, safe from the tornado that parades around the papers and shelves and items.

Tubbo bounces from wall to wall, shoving notes from shoddily pinned item frames into a bag, and from the few that remain, he can see they’re analyses on different battle strategies, profiles on Schlatt and Dream and how to get into their heads, drawings of Technoblade’s armor and how to improve it. There’s detailed notes and paragraphs upon paragraphs of Wilbur’s character and his current mental state, copies of the pages in Fundy’s book from nothing more than a quick glance at the contents, lists of what’s in everyone’s inventories and their chests. Even without seeing every page, he knows there’s not one on him because Tubbo would have it memorized.

Tubbo tears them down and tosses them into his bag, and Tommy has never been more _terrified_.

He’s not terrified because of the material itself; this is war after all, and they have to do what they have to do, and he’s always known Tubbo was watching. How else would he have been a successful spy? It’s the fact that Tubbo has all this information and knows how to get _more_ of it, and he’s taking it to _Schlatt_. He’s taking what could be Pogtopia’s greatest advantage and placing it in the hands of their enemy.

In the last item frame, Tubbo blocks the pages from Tommy’s view and tears them into tiny shreds, stuffing about half of them into his pocket so nobody can piece them together, and Tommy realizes that even if they tore the pages apart, even if they set fire to his room and burnt everything inside, Tubbo has everything he needs to know in his brain.

And he’s going to use it _against_ them.

He’s going to take the long nights sat around a fire, the sunrises spent dancing around a jukebox, every word that’s fallen from their mouths, every smile or frown or movement or breath, and he’s going to craft it into a spear that he drives through their hearts. Every time his eyes have lingered for half a second too long, he’s been adding paragraphs and paragraphs to his notes, flipping through the pages and pages of their minds and adding his own annotations, his own connections, breaking apart their sentences just to string them together again.

He can feel something in his chest shatter, something that pierces his lungs and makes it hard to breathe, something that makes him choke on his tears as they bubble in the corners of his eyes.

Tommy was so _sure_ of his best friend, so sure that no matter what, they would always be side by side. It didn’t matter who tried to manipulate them, who’s ideals were best to follow, who was the most stable; Tommy would always march on ahead with Tubbo following close on his heels. Even if Wilbur went insane, even if Fundy turned out to be a traitor, even if Quackity went back to Schlatt, even if Technoblade dropped them at the tip of a hat, if _nobody_ had his back, at least _Tubbo_ would.

But it’s clear from the sheer amount of paper lining the walls, the details they contain, the way they date back to weeks ago, that Tubbo has been planning this for a while. Maybe he’s been lying this whole time. Maybe he’s been a double agent all along. Maybe all the soft moments between them, the sunsets spent around a jukebox, the dinners around a campfire, the smiles and the laughs and the warmth, were all _fake_.

Tubbo said Wilbur was a manipulator, that he was a liar, but it was _Tubbo_ all along, wasn’t it? He’s been in his ear for months, whispering encouragement and cracking jokes to try and get a grin, just to build up a profile of how he thinks, just to get an up-close view of the gears in his brain like he’s some shitty redstone experiment. He yelled that Wilbur was wrong but Wilbur was _right_ ; even _Tubbo_ has betrayed him.

There’s a sick irony in it all, isn’t there? What sent Tubbo over the edge was Wilbur mocking him for the festival, jabbing at how he missed the bright red flags Schlatt sent his way, all while Tubbo had been silencing alarms the whole time right under their noses.

Tubbo reaches for his old uniform just as Tommy says, “You’re a traitor.”

He stops with his fingers hovering over the hanger, and he simply stares ahead at the blue fabric until he hardens his voice and replies, “Wilbur has gone insane. He’s a liar and manipulator, Tommy, and I won’t be used anymore.”

“No, you’re the manipulator!” Tommy shouts, anger rising in his throat in flames. He throws out his arm and gestures towards empty item frames. “You’ve been collecting data on us this whole time—“

“Well, I wanted to win the war!” Tubbo shouts back, a startling confidence in his words that Tommy hasn’t seen before. “I was doing it to show you guys your weaknesses so Schlatt couldn’t exploit them!”

“Well now _you’re_ exploiting them!”

“Because Wilbur was exploiting _me_!”

“No he wasn’t—“

“Tommy, are you blind?” Tubbo asks, and his voice is much quieter than a shout, but there’s an ice lacing his tone, a hidden dagger in the words. They stare at each other for a moment until Tubbo sighs, turning towards his uniform and ghosting a hand over the seams. “I know you want to trust him, Tommy. I do— _did_ too. But he...”

He turns back to Tommy with a desperation in his eyes, a final plead for Tommy to understand his stance. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you? He’s gone off the deep end.”

And there’s a part of Tommy that wants so _desperately_ to agree, a part that dreams of running into Tubbo’s arms and saying he’s sorry, of returning to the campfire where they can laugh and relax and be _normal_ again.

But then his eyes catch the ripped pieces of paper, and Tommy wonders if normal ever existed.

“I’m not going to waste my time listening to traitors.”

Tubbo blinks at him, and the torchlight flickers just enough for Tommy to see a glaze over his eyes, but then he clenches his jaw and yanks his uniform off the hanger, stuffs it into his bag, and without another word, he stalks out of his bedroom, hitting Tommy’s shoulder on the way.

He watches him go, watches as he fades into the shadows, watches as the constant presence over his shoulder dissolves into nothing more than a ghost.

There’s a swirl of emotion in his chest as the final shreds snap; the last remains of their trust turn to dust, and Tommy, who _never_ cries for _anything_ , tilts his head down and lets a tear roll down his cheek. He wants to stop at one, wants to shake himself out of it; he won’t cry over a traitor.

But he _wasn’t_ a traitor. He was his best friend.

And so Tommy lifts an arm up to his face and burrows his eyes in his elbow, tears dropping onto his sleeve as his shoulders shake. The vice over his throat squeezes, and a strained cry comes from his throat as he covers his mouth in a last ditch effort to muffle his sobs. The pain in his chest is all-consuming; it’s spreads like a fire, and his chest heaves and his shoulder shakes and he balls his hands into frustrated fists—

And his nails dig into the leather cover of a book, one that was pressed into his hands. Through the blurry haze, he can make out the title, and he reads four words that will change the course of their nation forever.

_‘I have a plan.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mkay in case it’s confusing  
> -tubbo only just turned traitor as soon as he realized wilbur had gone too far (in chapter one)  
> -wilbur was upset over losing tubbo bc he thought that if he antagonized tubbo enough he’d concede to his side just to stop the confrontation, except this time, tubbo stood up to him. wilbur refuses to accept that he was wrong about tubbo and instead brands him as just another traitor  
> -tommy thinks tubbo was a traitor all along


	3. bone deep exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need to speak with Schlatt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *”oh but karl and sapnap joined manburg’s side” i don’t give a FUCK ok it’s schlatt, dream, techno, and tubbo vs everyone else
> 
> *im not dealing w the badlands or rutabagville or any of that shit that’s too complicated for an already complicated story HEHRNJFJF we’re sticking to manburg vs pogtopia
> 
> *THIS CHAPTER IS SO MESSY EW
> 
> *i forgot to post this earlier bc i was cosplaying dream and being sad over my haircut I LOOK LIKE VLD KEITH WHY DO I HAVE A MULLET WHAT THE F U C K IS THIS

_Tubbo was tired._

_It was an ache that settled in his bones, a vice wrapping his head in cotton. It rocked into him like a tsunami, washing him in a constant pressure that never seemed to let go, a stone in his stomach that dragged him down with it’s weight. It hurt to breathe, to see, to hear, to exist. Tubbo wanted nothing more than to fall into an indefinite sleep and wake up when everything was okay again._

_But things wouldn’t be okay again, not unless he did something about it._

_Tubbo wanted to trust in Wilbur an almost desperate amount; he wanted to have certainty that if he fell, Wilbur would be there to catch him. If he needed a shoulder to lean on, Wilbur would be there to provide one. He wanted to trust in Wilbur’s words, wanted to finally escape treading on eggshells and dancing around a web of lies. He wanted to finally relax from constantly wondering what was true and what was a lie, what was genuine and what was part of a plan that was five steps ahead._

_He ran from Manburg because he wanted to get away from Schaltt. He ran from the manipulation, the tiptoeing, the deep breaths to keep his chest from heaving, the long nights spent curled up in bed, waiting for the guilt to pass. He ran from Manburg because he was done being Schlatt’s toy that he could play around with and then toss aside when he was done. Tubbo was_ done _being walked over. He was tired of it._

_But Tubbo wasn’t an idiot._

_From the moment Wilbur asked him to be a spy, Tubbo had been watching. He watched the way Schlatt’s eyes glanced over him like he was calculating his next move, and he learned exactly how to play into his expectations. He watched the way Quackity’s eyebrows furrowed more and more every time he met with the president as his frustration grew, and Tubbo started giving him small, reassuring smiles whenever they passed each other in the hallways. He watched Niki’s eyes widen when Schlatt did something she didn’t agree with, but her hands balled into fists by her sides and there was an anger hidden below the surface, so Tubbo went by the bakery for breakfast every morning to help support her financially, and he carefully danced around bringing her up when talking to Schlatt._

_Tubbo needed to be a spy, needed to play the part of a naïve child solider stripped away from his best friend, so he watched. He watched until he could tell Schlatt’s mood after a second long glance. He watched until he knew exactly what to say to remind Quackity he was seen. He watched until he memorized the body language of every citizen of Manburg, until he engraved the notions in his mind so he always knew what was coming._

_Tubbo knew_ something _was up with the festival. He didn’t know what, but he knew it was_ something _. But all the signs were there: the pretentious smirks from Schlatt, the invitation to Technoblade, the shake in Quackity’s hands, the calm before the storm. Every sign was in bright neon but Tubbo had_ still _missed it._

_He lifted his head up from where it was tilted, blinking as he slowly swept over his room. There were pieces of paper laid on his desk- and by desk, he means the wooden slabs Tommy and Techno had nailed to the wall- and Tubbo had an idea._

_When they were fighting for the discs back, Tommy went on and on about how important it was to have leverage, to have the upper hand. It was how they got two of the discs back, how Tommy won battles in the pet war, how Schlatt ended up as president, and how Wilbur held the fate of their nation in his hands. All of them had full control over their situations; they became the puppetmaster and pulled everyone’s strings this way and that._

_He wouldn’t be used by someone again. He couldn’t afford to be._

* * *

The wind is crisp on his face after spending so long in the ravine, biting into his cheeks, and he huffs a breath as he steps onto a log, adjusting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders.

The morning sun casts Manburg in an ethereal light, a golden glow bouncing off the boardwalks and outlining the buildings in an orange halo. The wind sweeps through the trees and ruffles the lake, and it whips around his hair, as if it’s saying _welcome home._

He heads down the hill, kicking up dirt as his feet fly through the grass. His backpack bounces up and down with each step, and he clenches the straps in tight fists, swallowing down his nerves about the situation. If there’s one thing Tubbo can count on, it’s his ability to make up a story on the spot. Adaptability is his strong suit, and whether he gets kicked to the curb or not relies on how well he plays to his strengths.

It’s Technoblade who finds him first. He feels a glare from across the river, and when red eyes meet his, he holds up his hands in surrender. In an ironic twist of fate, he’s _lucky_ it’s _Techno_ who spots him first; anyone else would’ve killed him on site.

Techno watches him like a hawk as he wades through the river, but he makes no move to draw his weapon, recognizing that he could take Tubbo out no problem should he attack. Unwilling to risk Techno’s sword at his throat, as soon as he’s hauling himself up on the riverbank, he says, “I need to speak with Schlatt.”

“Why?” Techno asks, but his dead tone makes it sound more like a statement. When Tubbo rises to his feet, he can see the slightest glint of curiosity in the other’s eyes and the twitch of his hand.

“I— I’d rather explain once, if I’m being honest,” Tubbo replies with his hand sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. Techno looks him up and down, scanning for a hidden weapon, and Tubbo holds his hands up. “I’m not going to assassinate anyone. That would be so stupid with you and Dream there.”

Techno shrugs, agreeing with a, “Fair enough,” and turning tail into Manburg, leaving the choice of whether to follow along or stay behind in Tubbo’s hands. He takes a deep breath, tasting the nights spent in the camarvan, the construction of the buildings, the laughter during the festival, and he steels his shoulders and runs after Technoblade.

The walk through Manburg is silent, with Technoblade’s boots clacking on the boardwalk ahead of them, Tubbo on his heels. The breeze glides over the roofs of their buildings, the water that surrounds their land, between their feet and into his lungs, and it smells like flowers and wood and _home_.

The White House looms over them, and neither of them stop to stare. Techno holds open the door for Tubbo to walk inside, and when he hears the resounding _bang_ as it’s closed, the bundle around his heart unties.

There’s no going back.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice says, and Tubbo glances up, feeling a familiar spike of fear through his heart. Slowly descending the stairs is none other than the President himself, glaring at Tubbo with a predatory glint in his eyes. Tubbo squares his shoulders and digs his nails into his palms; he doesn’t have to slip into the fake-oblivious state anymore, he doesn’t have to give up his strings to the puppetmaster anymore, and although he repeats that to himself, he can’t shake the nerves bubbling in his throat. “Who do we have here?”

“Hi,” Tubbo greets, a hint of shyness in his tone despite the way he fights against it. He wills his voice to come out stronger, lacing it with the confidence of a man in complete control of the situation. “Schlatt.”

The White House falls silent, save for the sounds of Schlatt’s heels echoing across the walls. With every click, Tubbo can feel his heart beat out of his chest, winding up into a knot of panic, a mess of thoughts saying he’ll be shot where he stands, tossed out of the White House, and he’ll have to tuck his tail between his legs and fall back to Pogtopia. He can imagine the smirk on Wilbur’s face as he reaffirms that he‘s been right all along, that Tubbo is nothing more than a pawn in the game that is L’manburg, that Wilbur is still and always will be right about anything and everything.

The thought makes his hands clench in anger.

Schlatt finally comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, and his smile drops into something more mad, bubbling with annoyance under the surface. He can feel Techno’s glare on his back and Dream’s stare on his face, the masked man draped over the railing at the top of the stairs. “What do you want?”

Tubbo takes a breath in, breathes in the chests of blaze rods, the leather of a book and quill, broken pieces of cobblestone crafted back together with care, and for the first time, Tubbo’s fingers grasp a set of strings and he _tugs_.

“I’m not a part of Pogtopia anymore.”

The White House is silent. Schlatt blinks at him a couple times, shocked into silence, before he raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “And why not?”

He sways back and forth on his heels. “I don’t agree with what Wilbur is doing. I think he just wants more power, and I think if Pogtopia wins and Wilbur becomes President again, he’ll lead this nation down an even worse path.”

Schlatt raises a hand and gestures in a circle. “And how does that tie into you coming _here_?”

He rocks onto his heels and levels Schlatt with a glare, one that has frost creeping behind his eyes, a determination and dedication to his ideals. “I think the best way to prevent Wilbur from being President is to protect you.”

And maybe, just _maybe_ , Tubbo held hope that things would be different. Maybe he hoped that for once, someone would see the ice in his eyes, the millions of calculations running through his head. Maybe the frost on his fingertips that clutch the straps of a backpack filled with nitpicks of every person’s brain would be able to reach out and pull the strings of the ones who’d been controlling him. Maybe he’d get to see the look of _awe_ on someone’s face after their king was knocked down by a mere pawn. Maybe for _once_ , someone would _finally_ see Tubbo as someone worthy of respect.

But instead, Schlatt doubles over in wheezy laughter, clutching the railing beside him in a futile attempt to hold himself upright. “You— you _actually_ expect me to believe that? You expect to believe even for a second that _you_ would betray Pogtopia? I don’t think so, Tubbo.”

His laughter is a punch to the gut, a stab through his chest, a dismissal of all of Tubbo’s efforts. He didn’t work this fucking hard just for Schlatt to laugh in his face. He didn’t spend hours writing notes and notes until his hand cramped and he physically couldn’t write anymore just for them to be skimmed over and ignored. He didn’t tiptoe around Wilbur for so long, study every crease of his brow or twitch of his hand, pick apart his plans and create endless counters, just for all of his work to be stomped on and crushed under the President’s foot. Suddenly they’re back at the festival, back when Tubbo glanced over the signs, sidestepped around bright neon flags, and he paid the price for it in red, white, and blue.

He won’t be used by someone again.

He feels his nails break into his skin in a burst of frustration, a fire lighting in his chest as the laughter rings in his ears. “Wilbur has eleven stacks of TNT.”

Schlatt’s cackles cut off as he straightens abruptly. “What?”

“He only has a stack of it on him, but he’s got eleven stacks total,” Tubbo says with absolute confidence, taking a step forwards. “He has a lot of diamond tools, the strongest being his sword and pickaxe, which are both enchanted. His sword’s got knockback one, unbreaking three, and sharpness four. He has diamond armor, but he never wears it, and that’s got—“

Schlatt holds up a hand. “What are you talking about?”

“What items Wilbur has,” Tubbo replies casually, shrugging his shoulders. “I could tell you other people’s if you’d like. Or I could tell you what to do to offset his enchantments. You know how Wilbur banned armor in L’manburg? I’m like, eighty percent sure he won’t wear any during the final battle.”

He gets his reply in the form of confused annoyance pulling back into curiosity, furrowed eyebrows as the President eyes him up and down, looking for a hidden surprise in his words, crossed fingers behind his back. When he finds nothing, his eyes widen as the truth comes crashing down, the genuineness washing over the White House like waves on a shore, and the three citizens of Manburg are swept up in the notion that Tubbo was a tidal wave brewing under the ocean all along, that there’s a fourth person who dove into the waves.

It’s Dream who speaks up next, filling the silence with a strong tone. “How do we know Pogtopia isn’t just planting you as a traitor?”

“Because Wilbur doesn’t trust anyone enough to,” Tubbo spits with venom, clenching his teeth and turning to the side. “Because he’s gone completely off the rails and doesn’t even care about our nation anymore. Because all he wants to do is blow it up!” Passion rises in his voice as he throws his hands up dramatically. The ache in his chest swells as the frustration climax’s, finally spilling over the ice and setting it aflame, and Tubbo is fucking _done_.

He’s done with people walking all over him, he’s done with having to constantly prove his loyalty, lest he be kicked to the curb, he’s done with the exhaustion coating his lungs every single second, clenching a vice around his throat with every breath he takes in Pogtopia. In Manburg, his _home_ , his chest is _finally_ clear; he never realized he wasn’t breathing until his heart started back up again.

“Our ideals align,” he says, turning to Schlatt and standing taller, and for the first time, there’s a glint of interest in his eyes as a business opportunity presents itself. “We both want Wilbur taken down, right?”

Schlatt taps a finger on the railing. “That’s true.”

“Then I’ll help you however I can... on one condition.”

Schlatt raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one coming to us. I don’t believe you’re in a position to make conditions.”

Tubbo expected this to happen, and he’s slinging his backpack off his shoulder before the sentence is even over, reaching in and pulling out the first paper he grabs. It’s an organized mess of scribbles about what Wilbur has said, what plans he could possibly have in place, what said outcomes could be and counteractions to those, and then backup plans to those counteractions. He never had the time to make it neater, but he knows it’ll suffice; he sees interest flash across the president’s eyes, can recognize the opportunist jumping out as Tubbo forks over the paper.

There’s complete silence as Schlatt’s eyes scan over messy writing and clumsily strung together sentences, but as his brain slowly pieces together what Tubbo was trying to say, his eyes grow wider and wider and his fear of Tubbo a bit greater and greater. By the end of the page, Schlatt’s eyes are practically bugged outside his head, and a part of Tubbo that has been waiting for so long to be respected takes the fear and runs with it. “You’d rather have me on your side than theirs, right?”

“You mean I could’ve been having you do _this_ ,” Schlatt shakes the paper, “the whole time, but I put you on festival planning instead?”

He hides a wince at the mention of the festival, covering it up by rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’ve always been doing that, I just finally wrote it down.”

“Let me see,” Dream asks, suddenly standing beside Schlatt. As the paper changes hands, Tubbo wonders how the hell the masked man is so slippery and out of sight all the time. His eyes trail over a porcelain mask, a barrier between Dream’s real thoughts, and he makes a resolution to keep a closer eye on him, lest Dream realize he has a leg up on him.

He sees Dream’s shoulders tighten slightly, and when he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous. “How do you know all of this?”

Tubbo shrugs. “I had to be a good spy for Pogtopia somehow. I just spun it on them instead of for them.”

“What’s your condition?” Schlatt asks, taking the paper and folding it into his suit pocket, and his gaze is more mindful of the way Tubbo’s eyes trace the movement, like he’s finally seeing the frost behind them for the first time.

Tubbo takes a breath in, knowing that his next words could make or break everything he’s fought tooth and nail for.

“I’m not giving you any information on Tommy. I won’t sell out my best friend.”

And he breathes out.

“That’s it?” Schlatt says, and Tubbo snaps his head up. “I expected you to ask for something out of this.”

“Yeah, what exactly _do_ you want after this?” Dream asks, crossing his arms.

Tubbo rubs his arm. “Uh... Wilbur taken down? I don’t really care what happens after that to be honest. I think anything would be better than what things are like in Pogtopia now.”

“I can help you refine your analysis,” Techno speaks up for the first time, and Tubbo twists around to see him. There’s a challenge in his eyes, an eyebrow twitches as if he wants to raise it, and Tubbo has a feeling that his help isn’t as innocent as it seems.

Why is _Techno_ here anyways? He thought that after the festival, he said all he wanted was chaos and destruction and anarchy, and he made it _very_ clear he would _never_ work for a government. So then why the hell is he here? If Techno wants chaos, shouldn’t he side with Wilbur, who’s literally going to blow up—

Oh. _Oh_.

Wilbur is going to blow up Manburg if they lose. If Techno wants Manburg blown up, he needs _Pogtopia_ to _lose_.

He’s similar to Tubbo then. Both of them aren’t actually working for Schlatt; they’re just siding with him because that’s the best way to fulfill their own goals. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dream isn’t on Schlatt’s side either; he probably wants Manburg blown up just as much as Techno does.

So nobody is _truly_ on Schlatt’s side, then. Techno and Dream are in it for the chaos, and Tubbo is in it for a toppled throne. When it comes down to the wire, nobody is going to take an arrow for Schlatt, nobody is going to stand for him. Nobody is going to choose Schlatt over their own goals.

Tubbo feels the strands of an idea weaving together in his head.

He eases a smile over his lips, relaxing the tension in his shoulders like he’s happy to spend time with a familiar face. “That would be great. My spelling is probably off, so I can give you the other ones to look at.”

“Other ones?” Dream asks, and Tubbo holds out his backpack for Schlatt.

“My backpack is full of them! I’ll give them you... if you let me stay.”

He feels Techno’s eyes bore into the back of his head, waiting for one slip-up, one motion to attack. He feels Dream’s gaze search his face for something other than generosity, the glint of a master plan beneath the impulsive decision. He feels the polished stone under his feet, the breeze stagnate around them, his home’s air pulled taught like a band about to snap.

And Schlatt slowly smiles and reaches out a hand.

“It’s a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *i just bullshit enchantments, i tried to find what they actually had but couldn’t be bothered to dig BDNDJNF
> 
> *IDK WHATS GOING ON W THE PAPERS I JUST FELT LIKE OP TUBBO IS POGCHAMP AND THATS WHAT I WENT WITH


	4. trace the stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You said you have a plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *im just gonna ignore what’s going on in the smp and pretend this fic still makes sense 🤡
> 
> *this whole story is just me finding some sort of symbol or imagery and latching onto it for the whole chapter JDJNFJG HELP
> 
> *’sBi fAmiLy dYnaMic iSnT cAnoN’ well neither is tubbo sticking up for himself but here we are
> 
> *also i Did Not Update for a bit one because school gives me no time and two bc i can only focus on one hobby at a time and rn my brain is pushing cosplay rly hard lol

The sky is painted in navy and glistening specks, the stars mapping out a path across the heavens. Tommy lifts a hand and holds it against them, lets the stars trace over the curves of his palm, breathes out and the air merges with the sky, and when he lets his hand fall to his side, he feels a bit less angry.

But not by much. He didn’t spend the past few hours pacing his room, muttering in hushed tones to himself so Wilbur couldn’t overhear him, just for his anger to dissipate with one breath and a few thousand stars.

This whole situation is _fucked_. It’s all fucked, and Tommy will be the one to admit it. He hates that he had to whisper to himself because who knew if Wilbur was listening, and Tommy would rather shove his own sword down his throat than have to sit through a Wilbur lecture. He hates how his fingers tapped the spine of the book, which was blank inside except for a meeting place, time, and signature. He hates how he sat down on his bed and pressed his palms against his temples, breathed in and remembered forests and horses and potatoes, and had to forget all about Technoblade for more pressing matters as he exhaled.

His brother betrayed him without a goodbye, his best friend hates his other brother and documented everyone’s thought processes, his last brother is absolutely mad but still sane enough to make a twisted amount of sense, who knows where his dad is, and he can trust an astounding _zero_ people. This situation is _fucked_.

If you asked Tommy why he’s trudging up a hill to go meet the traitor, he wouldn’t be able to tell you.

He debated it for a solid minute- he wishes he could say he thought about it for longer, but if there’s one thing he’s not, it’s a liar- and he knew that even if his brain went back and forth over it for the next few hours, he’d end up in the exact same place: hiking up a mountain in the dead of night. So Tommy hadn’t bothered to think it through and instead paced around his room until he heard Wilbur tuck in for the night, Fundy and Quackity say parting words to each other, and Niki softly close her door.

He reaches the top of the hill, and underneath a tall oak tree sits the traitor, moonlight highlighting dark hair and the curve of his knee as he sits criss-cross on the grass. His eyes flicker over to Tommy’s, and a sad smile spreads across his lips, a melancholic tune spilling from his grin.

Tommy shoves his hands into his pockets and scowls, plodding up to the tree. “What do you want, dickhead?”

Despite the situation, Tubbo snorts at the comment. “What a warm greeting.”

Tommy grinds his teeth, coming to a stop before Tubbo’s feet, looming shadow blocking out the hints of moonlight in his hair. “I don’t have time for dicking around. You said you have a plan?”

Tubbo’s back straightens, and he pats the ground in front of him. “You might want to sit.”

And sit he does, even though nobody tells Tommy what to do, so he crosses his arms and keeps a snarl etched on his face. “You better start talking.”

Tubbo takes a breath, gazing up at the stars like he’s written their fates in between them, like he’s pieced clusters into letters, like he’ll find his pages and pages of analyses drawn within the constellations.

“Do you remember the papers I shredded?”

It’s not exactly what Tommy excepted to hear out of Tubbo’s mouth, but he nods anyways. There are stars in Tubbo’s eyes, milky splotches flickering in their reflection, and Tommy wonders if he’s searching for something, like the tatters of the pages are scattered across the sky.

“I... I know you probably think I’ve been planning to betray Wilbur for a while...” Tubbo says, hesitant, twisting his fingers. “I... I won’t lie to you and say that isn’t true.”

Tommy’s heart plummets to the floor, a shooting star crashing across the sky.

“But... not in the way that you think.”

“Quit being vague, dipshit,” Tommy huffs, waving a hand. “Where’s the point?”

“I was getting there!” Tubbo protests, a small smile stretching across his face, and the tension between them feels almost familiar for a second. “I wasn’t planning anything in the sense of... I was actively doing it. But I did have a few ideas.”

Tubbo looks him in the eyes, and as the stars glitter faintly in the background, he can imagine Tubbo within the galaxy, stringing stars together until he forms some semblance of constellations. They dwelled on Earth while he capitalized on the sky, and Tommy wonders how many of the stars belong to him, how many asterisms he’s winded together while he knew their telescopes weren’t watching.

“There’s an ultimatum here, Tommy,” Tubbo states in an icy, factual tone, sitting up straight. “If we win against Manburg, Wilbur won’t blow up our nation. If we lose, he will.”

Tubbo’s eyes narrow; strands of hair fall into his face, snuffing out the glint of stars. “But that’s not the _real_ ultimatum.”

Tommy shifts. “Then what is?”

Tubbo leans back, casual and collected. “Whether we win or lose, Wilbur will blow up Manburg.”

Tommy’s breath hitches in his throat. “No he won’t.”

“Maybe not,” Tubbo agrees, shrugging, “but it’s a big possibility. Think about it. Wilbur has talked about blowing up Manburg for _weeks_. Why would he switch up now?”

“B...but...” Tommy starts, but there’s an itch in the back of his throat, stopping him from getting the protests out.

“I know it’s jarring to think about,” Tubbo kindly says, picking at the grass. “I think I knew for weeks, somewhere deep down, but I didn’t realize until Wilbur...”

He shakes his head. “Anyways, theres a lot of different ways this could go. I would’ve wrote a list, but I didn’t have time.” His fingers twitch as though there’s glimmering strings raining from them, cut off from the stars they should be connecting.

Tommy leans back onto his palms, a sparkling galaxy in his gaze. There’s a decision to make here, a fork in the path, and he’s not quite sure what direction to take.

On one hand, Tubbo has a point. He wouldn’t take such a strong stance against someone without reason, and his logic makes sense.

But on the other hand, Wilbur is Tommy’s _brother_. They’ve been through thick and thin together; they built up L’manburg and Pogtopia with their bare hands, constructed their country knowing it could crumble to a pyre, but they laughed together and knew it would all be okay. He can picture a silhouette with sunlight streaming behind him, a billowing blue coat, saluting to the nation that they sacrificed their hearts to. L’manburg was scuffed and lumpy and haphazardly thrown together with glue and duct tape, but the air within the walls was comfortable and snug. L’manburg is his home because his heart was etched into the flag in the shape of an x, with his brother’s core right beside it.

But there was one other x on the flag, one other vital piece of L’manburg, and that was his best friend sitting in front of him.

Tubbo gave just as much to L’manburg as the rest of them; if he wanted to count the amount of times Tubbo died for their country, he would need another set of hands. The L’manburg breeze is tinged with warm cups of mushroom stew, notes of Mellohi playing as the horizon faded to orange, yellow sand hardening to the concrete that created their walls. Ghosts of Tubbo are scattered all throughout their nation, his touch brushing past every pathway, every house, every tree, every flower; there is not one stone Tubbo hasn’t unturned, and to lose him means to lose the oxygen their nation needs to breathe.

For every grin he shared with Wilbur, there were two with Tubbo. Every step he and Wilbur took together on the pathways would later be stamped over by him and his friend. It’s not a choice of who he’s shared more with, who he’s given a larger piece of himself to.

It’s a question of who is _right_.

As much as it pains Tommy to admit, as much as he wants nothing more than to bury the thought before he can contemplate it, before it worms it’s way into his brain and he’s stuck with it on loop, he has to acknowledge that Wilbur has been acting... _strange_ lately. It’s as if he’s forgotten the flag they sewed together, the walls they crafted, the discs distant melody. He’s got a one-track mind; the only thing he seems to care about is seeing their nation explode, gaining the upper hand over Schlatt, watching a tyrant tumble off the bier he built.

But surely that isn’t true. Surely Wilbur remembers the nights huddled around a campfire, not knowing whether they’d be ambushed the next day and lose _everything_ , gritting their teeth against the world and taking the hits for their nation. He’s got to remember creeping through tunnels, blinding reaching out for each other’s hands in the darkness, knowing that every breath they took was shared between them. He’s got to remember the thrill of victory as Tommy emptied his pockets, the ink scratching against the pages of the Declaration, glancing up at Dream and meeting his eyes as he saluted with respect. Surely Wilbur’s got to _remember_.

If he does, he’s doing a shit job of showing it.

Tommy remembers it all, but he has new memories too, memories of tense shoulders when Wilbur was pushed too hard, of tip-toeing on glass to not set off a bomb, nails digging into his shoulder when he stared longingly off track. He remembers learning to shut his mouth and agree just to make Wilbur smile, even if it was sadistic and twisted and made fear shoot down his spine. He knows to not mutter under his breath, to muffle his pacing, to have immediately stuffed the book Tubbo pressed into his hand under his pillow.

He remembers what Wilbur said when Tubbo stood up to him. He remembers the word _traitor_ falling from his lips without even sparing a _second_ to ponder whether Tubbo had a point or not.

_“There goes another traitor!”_

He remembers golden sunrises with Cat floating through his ears. _  
_

_“This is exactly what I said, isn’t it?“_

He remembers quieting his voice when Wilbur shot him a pointed look. _  
_

_“Even_ Tubbo _has betrayed you, Tommy. Even he lost the essence of our nation.”_

He remembers watching Wilbur hang up the flag, beholding the red, white, and blue stripes flapping in the breeze.

_“The truth hurts, Tommy.”_

The truth _does_ hurt. It burns and _burns_ until his insides are on fire, until he’s choking on embers and his eyes are spilling out smoke. The truth stares him right in the face and lights him aflame, mercy searing right beside him.

Through the flames in his stomach, Tommy has one question he can ask, one path he can travel. He throws out a hand, but only one person can grasp it; there is only one piece of his heart left and only one person he could give it to.

“You think Wilbur is wrong?”

“Yes,” Tubbo says without missing a beat.

“...You really think he’ll explode L’manburg?”

Tubbo taps his hands against his knee. “I think it’s one of many branches.”

“...What else do you think he’ll do?”

“Well,” Tubbo starts, “let’s say Pogtopia somehow does win. Ideally, Wilbur would go back to normal, resume his duties as President, and everything would be okay. But I think... I think you and I know things don’t work out that way.”

“They don’t,” Tommy agrees with a nod.

“Most likely option? Wilbur blows L’manburg up anyways. It’s not like he promised he wouldn’t, and he’s been going on about Chekhov’s gun for ages. My other idea is that he takes power for himself and leads our nation down a worse path than Schlatt.”

Tommy hums, the possibilities spinning around his head. “And Wilbur will blow it up if we lose.”

“Probably. Unless he miraculously has a change of heart, but Schlatt would still be in power, so it’s a double loss.” Tubbo plucks at the grass. “I was... entertaining the idea of safety nets earlier.”

“Safety nets?”

Tubbo nods. “Technoblade is Wilbur’s safety net for if Pogtopia loses. I think Techno is Wilbur’s way of sabotaging Pogtopia without it being obvious. Techno wants Manburg gone just as much as he does. I have a hunch that Dream is somehow Wilbur’s safety net for if Pogtopia wins, which is why I think him blowing it up anyways is the most likely option. Remember what I said the day I left? Wilbur wants Pogtopia to lose so he’ll get what he wants, and no one can claim he ‘betrayed’ them. But he needs assurance that if Pogtopia wins, he’ll still get his way.”

Tommy waves a hand. “So how does this circle back to your plan?”

“So we’ve established that it’s likely L’manburg will be blown up, correct? The problem is, even if we somehow stop that, Schlatt remains in power, and Wilbur would honestly go even more insane.”

Tubbo locks his eyes onto his, and Tommy can see the stars weaving together in the reflection. “Ideally, we need to stop Wilbur from blowing up Manburg, take Schlatt out of power, and keep Wilbur from getting it.”

He has a guess as to what Tubbo is saying, and the paths expand before him. The truth lights a lantern in his hands, and Tommy stretches out an arm. He only has one match, only one path he can burn, only one he can venture. To burn Wilbur’s path would be to admit that his trust was a lie, that he gifted his heart to the wrong person. It would be saying that he was wrong to defend him, wrong to stick by his side, wrong to chose him.

To burn Tubbo’s path is to die.

“You want to kill Wilbur and Schlatt.”

There’s constellations in Tubbo’s eyes, roaring to life as the fire burns. “Yes.”

Tommy drops the match.

“Then what’s your plan?”

Beneath a sky of smoldering stars, Tubbo grins.

Beneath a sky of smoldering stars, Technoblade listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *id make a joke about taking a shot every time i say either ‘stars’ or ‘sky’ but i think you’d actually die

**Author's Note:**

> *tubbo said fuck being good i’m a bad bitch


End file.
